by Liam Reese
I ventured out into the surrounding village two days past, slipping off my guard-clothes and dressing like the people once more. There is an air of fear in the village, and I was almost caught when guards from the castle came into the village, taking produce and butchered animals from the people. They also took young boys, choosing only those who looked sturdy and strong. I fear Gallys may be building up his guard. It would be a long game, but I believe he wishes to rule more than just his castle and village.
I will remain here, Captio, until we are sure the girl is who we think she is, and past that perhaps to be certain we know what Gallys’ plans are. Until I see you again.”
The tone of the memo was fearful. Humans had not, in current memory, ever had a king in the way the Aes Sidhe did. Of course, there were men who led others into battle before the Aes Sidhe were driven from the realm, but humans lived scattered, chaotic existences for too long to be united under one ruler. What was more disconcerting was the brother’s description of the guards’ behavior. Captio was correct. How could Gallys be controlling them? It must have been magic. Croenin wondered if he and his family were the only humans with Aes Sidhe blood.
“You see now,” Captio said softly, interrupting his thoughts. “This is not a situation we can rush into. We must prepare, and you need more training before you enter that castle. We’ll need you to ensure we have the right girl. I refuse to waste men on a fool’s errand.” He stood, gesturing to a cabinet toward the back of the room that Croenin hadn’t noticed before, its dark wood almost blending in with the brown stones of the walls. “Open it, and choose which one calls to you.”
Croenin slowly made his way to the cabinet, placing his hands gently on the knobs before slowly pulling the doors open. Before him were various weapons, swords, axes, daggers, spears, flails, and crossbows. He thought of his own moonstone dagger, which was still safely tucked into his old pair of boots, miraculously unnoticed by the Faero Ursi who disrobed him and tended his wounds. He would need something larger if he were going against castle guards and stared at the weapons in front of him, wondering which would be best.
“We don’t have all day, Croenin,” Captio drawled, crossing his arms. “Pick one.”
Croenin quickly grabbed a two-handed flail, weighing the staff in his hands and gently touching the smaller, metal-studded ball hanging off the end. It was unlike any weapon he had ever seen, and his curiosity got the better of him.
“Interesting choice,” was all Captio said before ushering Croenin from his office.
Outside, Saed was waiting for him, a large grin on his face.
“For once, Captio’s not gonna have all the fun” He chuckled, clapping Croenin on the back. “Follow me, lad. We’ve got some work to do.”
Saed led Croenin out of the large stone building, walking along a path into the fields behind it. Croenin, who hadn’t been allowed to leave the building since his arrival months ago, was grateful for the chance to feel the sun and fresh air. It was a small comfort to his already weary soul. As they walked, the ground grew steeper, and Croenin frowned. The fields near his village had been relatively flat, allowing him to see for miles. He stepped carefully, trying to keep his footing as the dirt path began to slope more and more, until Saed stopped abruptly in front of him, hands on his hips.
“Here we are!” He gestured outward. “Not bad, eh?”
Croenin moved to stand beside him and stared out at the amphitheater that lay before him. It was massive, deeper, Croenin guessed, than the well in his village. The center looked large enough to hold all 50 brothers of the Faero Ursi standing shoulder to shoulder ten times over. As Saed led him down to the center, Croenin looked up, marveling at stone seating around them.
“What is this place?” He asked reverently.
“It’s an amphitheater, lad. The Aes Sidhe would hold mock battles here. At least, that’s what Captio told me.” He seemed unconcerned, not at all overwhelmed like Croenin was. “Show me your weapon.”
Croenin shook his head, forcing himself to focus, and raised his flail, holding it out in front of him for the large man to inspect. Saed took it from him, balancing it in his hands, before swinging it wildly. He sighed and handed it back to Croenin.
“This, I can’t help you with,” he said, crossing his arms. “If you’d chosen a sword or even a spear I might have been able to turn you into a true fighter, but I’d probably put my own eye out trying to teach you to use one of these.”
Croenin frowned. “What am I supposed to do, then?”
Saed ran a hand over his face, looking off into the distance for a moment before replying, “Wait here.”
He jogged up the steps of the amphitheater, and Croenin lost sight of him as he made his way back along the dirt path toward the keep that served as headquarters for the brotherhood. Croenin stood, taking in the amphitheater’s expansiveness once more for a few moments, before starting to swing his flail haphazardly. It felt incredibly awkward, and Croenin cursed himself for choosing such an odd weapon. No doubt Captio was hoping he’d chosen a sword or even a crossbow. He raised the flail over his head, pretending to strike someone. He realized he didn’t have nearly the same reach as he would with a sword. He would be forced to be close to his opponent due to the short handle. Great, he thought, at this rate I’ll die as soon as I step foot in that castle.
“Well, maybe you’ll frighten a sheep like that, but no self-respecting warrior would hesitate to cut you down,” a gruff voice mocked him from above.
Croenin turned abruptly to see Clythar, followed closely by a sullen Saed, descending the steps of the amphitheater. He blushed red, angry at the teasing, which made the yeoman laugh.
“A flail. Not many choose ‘em. Take a lot of skill, and Saed here tells me we don’t have much time.” He stopped in front of Croenin, leaning down a bit so they were eye level. “I guess I’ll have to work a miracle, eh brother?”
He turned his head toward Saed, and Croenin noticed for the first time a branding mark on his left cheek, a circle with two lines drawn through in an x shape. Croenin was taken aback. While some in his village branded their own individual cows to tell them apart when they let them graze as a group in the fields, he couldn’t imagine branding a person. Clythar straightened and roughly grabbed Croenin’s flail from him. Startled, Croenin gripped it tighter, yanking it away from the larger man. He glanced at Saed, who seemed amused at his show of defiance. Clythair, however, grew angry. He shoved the young man to the ground with a gloved hand, ripping the flail from his hands. Saed rushed forward, placing his hands on his brother’s shoulders.
“Patience, Clythair! He did what any of us would do if someone tried to take our weapon from us! Don’t punish the boy for trying to defend himself.”
Clythair merely shook him off, turning away and inspecting Croenin’s chosen weapon instead. He twisted the staff and pulled, extending the staff so it was closer to the length of a spear, twisting once more to lock it into place. Croenin and Saed watched in amazement, Croenin silently cursing himself for not realizing that aspect of his weapon sooner.
“There,” Clythair said quietly. “That’ll give you reach and some protection.” He gripped the weapon tightly with both hands, placed one foot behind the other, and swung in an arcing motion. “Good balance, not too heavy either. You picked a good one.” He turned back to Croenin and handed him the flail. “You’ll learn to use it both ways, shortened and lengthened. Short, you’ll be swinging it like a sword, and you’ll practice with a sword first to get the movements down without the head swinging everywhere. Saed’ll be working with you with that. I prefer to keep mine lengthened, but we ought to give you a choice.” At that Saed’s face lit up. “But I’ll be teaching you how to use it when it’s long at the same time.”
He produced his own, shortened flail that had been tucked into the waist of his trousers, extending it and holding it in front of him. While Croenin’s weapon was of a lighter-colored, less weighty wood and oryn head, Clythair’s was of
a darker, heavier wood, its head obsidian. Croenin stared, never having seen a weapon made with stone before.
“You like it?” Clythair smirked. “From my own region of Rassement. What all weapons were made of before the oryn of this region reached us. Where I got this, too.” He pointed to the branding mark on his face. “They don’t brand killers here, do they?” Croenin silently shook his head. The Faero Ursi really do accept anyone, he thought. Clythair’s grin grew, as if reading Croenin’s thoughts. “Don’t worry, I’m no criminal. Only a man who does what he must. Now, raise your weapon, like so.”
He gripped the staff of his flail with both hands, holding it diagonally and taking a wide stance. Croenin mimicked him, frowning as he immediately felt awkward. He watched as Clythair slowly swung the staff of his weapon outward, so that the head was pointed toward Croenin. Croenin tried to do the same, and nearly fell, thrown off balance as the heavy oryn head at the end of his weapon swung wildly.
“Don’t swing it so fast! You’ve got to get used to how the head balances,” Clythair said, rolling his eyes. “Again.”
They repeated this motion too many times for Croenin to count, and once Clythair was satisfied, they moved on to other movements. Croenin learned to block, how to swing from overhead so only the head struck his opponent, and how to swing from the side so the head would wrap around his opponent’s neck or side. Croenin was panting by the end of it, arms burning. He had been used to heavy lifting back home, helping out at his father’s smithy and doing general farm labor, but his weeks spent pouring over parchments had done little for his physical condition, especially after being bedridden. When he saw that his pupil was spent, Clythair took the flail from him, shortening it once more.
“That’ll do for now. Go and eat. You’ll come back here after so Saed can work with you.”
With that the three made their way back to the dining hall, Croenin exhausted from his short training session. He sat down heavily at an empty table, putting his head on his aching arms. He didn’t know how he was going to train more this afternoon. All he wanted to do was sleep. The young man felt hopelessly weak compared to the brothers around him. I won’t last long if I can’t keep fighting for more than a couple hours, he thought. I’ll be a tired mess by the time I get to Ayne.
“You did well, lad!” Saed startled Croenin as he plopped down on the creaking bench across from him, setting down bread and two bowls of barley soup. “You lasted much longer than I did my first time.”
“I did?” Croenin wrinkled his nose in confusion. “I thought I did miserably.”
“You did much better than others I’ve seen. I know your weapon is a bit lighter than others, but you held your own and control it well already.” He took a large bite out of his hunk of bread. “Next comes sparring.”
At that, Croenin let his head drop back onto his arms. He imagined himself sparring with Claythair and being knocked to the ground almost immediately. He sighed, reaching out a hand for the chunk of bread in front of him, but was stopped when Captio burst into the dining hall. The thin man scanned the room for a moment before his eyes rested on Croenin. Walking briskly to where the young man was seated, he grasped the back of his shirt, pulling him into a standing position.
“Come,” he said, “and bring your food with you. We have things to discuss.”
Croenin grabbed the bowl and bread and followed in silence, not daring to speak until they were behind the heavy door of his office.
“What happened? What’s wrong?” He asked, as Captio paced in front of the fire.
“What’s wrong is that I was correct,” came the ambiguous answer. Before Croenin could ask any further questions, he continued. “One thing you should have come to know by now, Croenin, is that I do not like to overlook things. I am an incredibly careful person, and so far, that has paid off.” He turned and glanced at Croenin. “I’ve lost fewer men than any master of the Faero Ursi before me, and that isn’t only due to my skills as a medic. I don’t rush into situations without detailed analysis of all possible dangers, and while some think that makes me weak, it has spared lives. I told you I didn’t want to enter Gallys’ castle without understanding the situation, but now I’m not sure if we should enter the castle at all.”
Croenin, whose hunger had overtaken him, nearly choked on his soup. Captio had promised that the brotherhood would help him “retrieve” Ayne. He couldn’t go back on that promise now. Croenin felt himself growing angry, but Captio raised a hand to silence him before he could speak.
“We will still help you save your sister. That is not up for debate. But after what I learned this morning, I’m not sure she is in Gallys’ castle.” He picked up a sheet of parchment on his desk, glancing over it. “I received this from a brother I had sent to Rassement, in which lies the only other human-occupied castle the brotherhood knows . The ruler of the castle there, Eudyse, controls the castle and the surrounding village much like Gallys, though he shares power with his brother Lothaire. The situation described by the brother there is nearly identical to the situation here in Toque Staetym, right down to the silver-haired maid serving one of Eudyse’s daughters.”
Croenin gasped. Had Ayne placed a decoy in one of these castles? Or is she in two places at once? Came the voice from the back of his head. He shook that notion away. That would be ridiculous, he thought. I don’t think even she could do that. Yet, part of him doubted it was impossible. After all, he had been miraculously healed not long ago.
“So,” he asked, meeting Captio’s expectant gaze. “What’s your plan?”
Captio smiled softly. “We change direction. You’ll continue training with your weapon while I prepare, but we leave for Gallys’ castle in a fortnight. You’ll know which girl is your sister when you see her, and we will smuggle her out of whichever castle she is in. But for us to raise no alarms entering or leaving, I must plan. Whatever power these men hold, I doubt we can face them with only our conventional weapons. I will update you with more information soon.”
He nodded at Croenin, who took that as his cue to leave. The young man slowly made his way back to the dining hall, thinking of his sister. If she really is powerful enough to be in two places at once, what if she knows we’re coming for her. He thought back to Old Haega’s death, which he’d avoided ruminating over too long since leaving his village. Ayne had left a message, in their grandmother’s blood in what he now recognized as decryti. He briefly wondered how Raena, more importantly how his sister, had come to learn the language and then shook that thought from his head. That wasn’t important at the moment. Ayne had known that he had learned of the prophecy and that he would be searching for her. She taunted him over this. No doubt she knew that he would be coming for her soon, and he wondered how she knew these things. Perhaps she scryed like Old Haega had, with her candle flame and glass. Croenin wondered if he could do the same. He had no glass, but his own room’s fireplace should suffice. That, however, would have to wait until evening. I don’t have to think about it til then, he told himself. Just empty my mind and focus on training.
He found using his flail like a sword much easier. He worked with Saed for a few hours, progressing quickly from copying basic maneuvers to sparring and surprising both himself and the large man.
“I must be a better teacher than I thought,” Saed had joked, red-faced as he swung his own weapon to block Croenin’s strike. “Are you sure you’ve never trained before?”
Croenin huffed out a “no,” and their sparring session devolved into Croenin, growing tired, merely blocking Saed’s advances. Seeing his pupil’s exhaustion, the burly man stopped and patted him on the back.
“You’ve done well, lad. Eat and get some rest. You’ll be meeting Clythair here early tomorrow morning to train again. I will be out in the morning, so you’ll go at it alone.”
Croenin sighed. He was not looking forward to his session with the branded brother. While he had been friendly, if a bit gruff, in front of Saed, Croenin could see the glint in his eye as
he looked at him. Something was off about the man, and he didn’t know what. Maybe he just doesn’t like me, he thought. The few times he’d seen Clythair interact with the other brothers, he noticed that most avoided him beyond polite greetings. Only a few, who looked just as rough and menacing as him, were in any way friendly with the chestnut-haired man. The rowdy group could often be found in a far corner of the dining hall, huddled together and quietly talking amongst themselves, occasionally bursting into raucous laughter. Something is up with him, Croenin assumed, thinking of the branding mark on his cheek. He said he was a killer, after all. But now was not the time to think about that. Now, he would try to see Ayne.
Croenin breezed through the dining hall, grabbing a barley roll and a turkey leg and rushing to his room.
“Should be dark enough to light a fire and not be too suspicious,” he mumbled to himself.
Most of the brothers in the keep knew he had started his training today. No doubt they’d assume that Croenin, tired out by the rigorous physical exercise, had merely gone to bed early. He knelt in front of the fireplace, coaxing the fire to start and smiling to himself as it roared to life. Raising his hands to warm them, he stared into the fire, unsure of how to proceed. Croenin thought back to when Old Haega had conjured an image of his sister from the flame of a candle. Had she said anything special? He asked himself. He didn’t believe so. He sat back on his haunches, narrowing his eyes as he stared and trying to focus on conjuring an image from the flames in front of him. After a while, he began to feel silly.
“C’mon,’ he muttered. “Show her to me.” Still, nothing happened. “Show me Ayne.”
Suddenly, a strange feeling came over him. No, no, no, no, he thought as the familiar blackness began to fill in his field of vision. He was quickly losing consciousness and, unable to fight it, felt himself falling sideways, head banging the stone floor. Instead of the nothingness he had experienced previous times, Croenin felt as if he were floating and opened his eyes to see fields, forests, and villages quickly flying past him. Blinking rapidly, he soon realized that he was the one moving, flying far above the settlements and trees below. He couldn’t move, couldn’t see himself as he tried to roll his eyes further downward, but could only allow himself to be carried forward by some unknown force.
